


feeling like a ghost

by TheLimeGreenMachine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Changing Tenses, F/M, Memories, POV Solas, Solavellan, post All New Faded for Her, wandering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLimeGreenMachine/pseuds/TheLimeGreenMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I will meet you back at Skyhold," Solas had said. Yet his anger keeps him away, and trying to soothe it, Solas wanders, trying to piece his thoughts together about his feelings for Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	feeling like a ghost

**Author's Note:**

> several things. first off, this fic was...difficult. the main idea of the fic is that it switches tenses, and i am already super fucking terrible with tenses. so idk if i need to say this or if its obvious, but whenever i use past tense, solas is remembering; when present tense is used, solas is experiencing. yknow?
> 
> this was actually really fun once i got past the tense. i adore writing dorian and cole, but goddamn if solas isn't the hardest character i've had to write in a while.
> 
> oh by the way!! one other thing: i only referred to my lavellan as "Lavellan" just bc whenever i read a solavellan fic - or any dragon age fic, really - seeing a thing like "____ Lavellan" really takes me out of it. thats just my personal preference. i also didn't specify class for my lavellan, but i did put in a few of the physical attributes. 
> 
> bon appetit

He stares down at the three bodies and their cold, shock filled eyes. 

They all stare up at the sky, expressions glazed over and dead. He watches the flames curl around the wisps of clothing that haven’t already burned away, sees the open-mouthed cry of despair frozen on the woman’s face.   _Fools_ , he thinks in contempt, yet when he gazes at their bodies all he sees are pitiable humans. Common townspeople with no working knowledge of magic who had tried to use a spell they didn’t understand for personal gain. 

Solas doesn’t turn to see the looks on the faces of his party, because he knows exactly what they would be already. Cole would be quiet, observing; Cassandra would stare at him with disgust and awe for what he’s done. And he doesn’t even want to think about what she would think of him. 

“Damn them all,” he manages, hands curled into fists as he looks over the three burning bodies once more. For a moment, habitually, he begins to turn around to look at them, but stops himself and continues talking before any one of them can comment. “I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.” 

As he walks away from them, he ignores the loud rage of Cassandra’s voice and Cole’s soft mumbling; instead, he focuses on the feel of the yellowed grass under the soles of his feet, the crests of the mountains that rise over the horizon. It isn’t until it’s been near silent for around ten minutes that he realizes it’s going to be a long journey home. 

Briefly, he stops at the camp the Inquisition had set up in the southern Exalted Plains. He grabs new potions and allows himself just a moment’s rest before he grabs a mount and heads north, out of the plains. Lieutenant Harding gives him an odd look as he rides past her, but he ignores her. If he wanted to have a predictable, endless conversation with a dwarf, he would have sooner approached Varric. 

While he usually found the Exalted Plains beautiful in their strange way, on this ride all Solas sees is endless fire, crippled and burned bodies, trenches and battlements and bloodied spikes. It doesn’t help that the world is so unsettlingly quiet without the company of the Inquisition at his side. As Solas rides, he lets his horse do a good amount of the work and lets his mind wander, reminiscing of better days when he did not feel a horrible, boiling wrath curdling in his stomach like a sickness. 

* * *

It wasn’t like Solas was _special_ to Lavellan, he was sure of that. From the moment he first saw her, all he knew was that she was an elf, like him (even if she _was_ Dalish). When Cassandra brought her to the fade rift in the Frostback Mountains, he regarded her as another faceless mortal. But then she used her mark – the Anchor – and he helped her, his hand on her wrist as her mark closed the rift. Solas was aware, suddenly: her pulse under his thumb, the curves of the light vallaslin over her lips, the way the corner of her mouth subtly turned up when Varric said something she thought amusing. 

From then on, he considered her separately from all of the others. There were the men and women of the Inquisition, and then there was _her,_ there at the heart of it all. She was the life essence of the whole operation – she had been from day one. They would fall apart without her, and every single one of them knew it.   

Lavallen would always stop by to talk to him while on her way to the alchemist. They flirted, of course, but it was subtle and sometimes snuck into the conversation. Besides, from conversations between her and others he’d overheard, she enjoyed flirting with her companions; flustering Cullen to speechlessness was something that she did often. It was always casual between them, her sliding in clever words and him replying just as easily. He never found them to be particularly serious, yet sometimes amusing; from the expression on her face, a part of her found it amusing as well. The other part of her he wasn’t so sure about. 

Her very being made people want to flock to her, her elegance and nobility despite the fact being Dalish. Being Dalish only made her want to work harder to gain their favor, and she usually did. By the time she conscripted the rebel mages to join the Inquisition, she had every person in Haven at her feet, yet she didn’t even notice. 

Solas didn’t notice when it happened to him. His work with the Inquisition was valuable, and top priority above all, or at least he thought. He wondered vaguely when that changed. Sometimes, in the midst of battle, or when she stood to close a rift, the lines blurred, and dangerously so. He would forget what his objective was: closing the Breach, or following her. 

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure when observing her transformed into _observing_ her. She was nice to look at, certainly. They all noticed, Solas was sure: he recalled watching Sera’s eyes rake over her small figure in Val Royeaux, or seeing Blackwall gaze at her almost painfully before a blush crept across his face.  

There was one time – one of the earlier times, he thought – that they were climbing tall hills on the Storm Coast, Lavellan leading the way and grunting as the slope got increasingly steeper. She paused for a moment to wipe some sweat off her brow, and a thought popped into Solas’ head: _Her vallaslin is the same color as the grass._

They were always little things that Solas noticed. The morning after that first thought, he passed by her tent as she was preparing herself for the day, struggling to pin up her hair in the brisk, rainy weather. _She always has trouble taming that lone curl at the base of her neck._ He almost stopped to ask if she needed help, but Varric called to him from across the camp to offer him breakfast. 

From there it only escalated. The quiet details turned into simpler, more opinionated thoughts that quickly became overbearing. In Haven’s morning sunlight, she arose from her chambers and smiled at the skies. _She’s gorgeous._ In the Hinterlands, after killing a Templar, she wiped blood off of her blade in one fluid motion. _Elegant even in the most horrid situations._ It got harder to be near her with all of those incessant, never-ending thoughts.

But she stayed the same to him: simply a friend, occasionally teasing him just to try and trip him up, get him flustered. Sometimes he returned her compliments with a bit too much honesty. 

* * *

With a sigh, Solas looks to the distant city of Val Royeaux, trying to soothe the tired whinnying of his exhausted horse. 

Usually he goes straight back to Skyhold, but going straight back to Skyhold would mean facing the millions of problems that await him. Wandering aimlessly seems easier. Not as practical, and definitely not smart, but easier on his mind. He misses his wandering days so much now, back when there was no Breach or no horrible threat of war that weighed on everyone constantly. 

His mount sighs with relief when they trot into the city towards the stables. Solas can feel the stares beginning to settle on his back; an elf in this city is rarely without a slave master, let alone an elf riding in on a horse. He could burn the whole damned city to the ground and make it look like an accident if he wanted to. But he’s tired of carnage. It’s what led him here in the first place. 

It’s been three days since he left the Exalted Plains. Lavellan and the others are likely almost back to Skyhold if they haven’t made it already. He doesn’t know how long he plans on staying away, but he desperately hopes that she doesn’t worry about him, though he knows she will. As the sky darkens against the strong outline of the city of Val Royeaux, Solas gazes out the window of his rented room for the night and almost wishes that he could find her in the Fade. 

* * *

Everything proceeded smoothly for the Inquisition’s plan. Lavellan played her part beautifully, with all of the grace that she used to carry out everything. With the rebel mages assistance, the Breach was closed, and Solas prepared himself to leave the Inquisition behind and find a way to get his orb back. Leaving the Inquisition would help him forget his ridiculous teenage infatuation with Lavellan. 

He was packing his things when the bells started to clang throughout Haven. The screaming followed shortly after, with fires springing up in the hills at alarming rates. She was gone before he had a chance to find out what’s going on, out to protect the trebuchets as they retaliated against The Elder One. While she fought, he stayed back in the Chantry and tried to calm a wildly panicked Josephine alongside an enraged Leiliana. It wasn’t long before the building quickly flooded with injured civilians, limping from gashed and bleeding wounds or trying to snuff out their smoking, blackened skin. He worked to help heal them. 

It felt like ages before she returned to the Chantry. Their plans were hastily discussed, Chancellor Rodrick proving to be a flickering light in the darkness that was quickly overtaking Haven. As he limped to the back of the room with Cole’s assistance, the boy commented, “He’s going to die,” and Solas saw the first edge of sadness in her eyes. 

In a panic, Lavellan told Dorian, Sera, and Cassandra to get their armor and weapons ready, because they were going to head out and fight. Cassandra marched over to Leiliana and Josephine while putting on her armor, and Lavellan looked over to Solas. There were no witty comments, no charming smirks or smiles. She could hide it well, but Solas could see that Lavellan was _terrified_. He could see it in her eyes for just a flash before it went away again, replaced by the stoic confidence she held so well. 

“ _Dareth shiral_ ,” he spoke, the Elven rolling off of his tongue, and she smiled through her anxiety. He began to move back for fear of someone seeing them and spreading talk; people already did enough of that as it was. But he allowed himself to say one more wish to her: “Return safely to us, _lethallan_.” 

Her smile grew a bit more genuine for a moment. “Don’t go too soft on me,” she teased, and he would have been concerned that she wasn’t taking it seriously before she added, “I will, Solas.” He glanced and saw her fingers twitching at her sides, like she was planning to reach out to him but thought better of it. “ _Dareth shiral_ ,” she finally returned, joining the rest of her party and heading out of the Chantry. 

As he helped the wailing survivors out through the hidden path in the back of the building, her nervous smile lingered in his head. He hoped she lived to show him a real one. 

* * *

Hours passed before they saw a sure sign of anything. Solas and Vivienne combined their abilities to send up the flare, and it wasn’t long after that that waves of snow came crashing down from the Frostback Mountains and buried Haven in their path…and everyone inside. 

They all knew what the avalanche meant, but none of them dared to say anything. After another long while of marching through the snow, they found a suitable place to set up camp – a perfect distraction. They all set up the main part of the camp, and then Iron Bull and Blackwall set up all the remaining tents they had for the civilians while Cullen and Josephine paced and Leiliana prayed. 

Solas was assigned (well, actually _ordered_ ) by Josephine to tend to the wounded. Somewhere into the second hour of doing that, Cole came along and began to help him. He began in the tent across from where Solas was, then worked his way over. When Solas asked what he was doing, Cole answered in that sad voice of his, “I asked her what I could do. I wanted to help, but her mind was everywhere, moving, yelling. So I went where I was needed.” 

For a while there was only the sound of his healing magic and the sounds of the moaning and the needy. Then Cole spoke again, suddenly right next to him. “Your eyes are old and sad. There’s so much you have to say, but you rarely ever say it.” The boy cocked his head curiously, his oversized hat flopping into his face. “You’re scared for her but you know she can take care of herself. Why?” 

“I am not scared,” Solas snapped, a bit too harshly, and the young child who’s arm he was healing squirmed. Carefully, he readjusted his tone. “I am not scared,” he repeated in a softer tone, “but I do worry what will happen to the Inquisition should she not return.” 

That was a white lie, and Solas could see that Cole knew that. He moved closer, his voice barely there, and said, “There are colors swimming inside of you, bright and glorious. They ache to be released and to soar into the sky. But you haven’t talked to them yet, and they don’t know why. Do you want me to help?” 

“No, Cole,” he turned to him, finally, and kept his voice tight with a forced smile. “I will be fine. There are others that are hurting more than I am.” That’s all it seemed to need to drive him in the opposite direction, towards an elderly man with an amputated leg. 

Things were quiet until a half an hour later, when three figures came trudging up the mountainside, weary and bloody from battle. Sera’s bow was broken, Dorian’s clothes were soaked in blood, and Cassandra walked in front, her shield riddled with dents. She approached Leiliana, Cullen and Josephine, who awaited her word anxiously, but she shook her head. The color drained from Josephine’s face, and Cullen put his head in his hands. 

From there, everything was blurry. Search parties were sent out around every forty-five minutes with no results, everyone frantic to find the elf that they called their Herald. Solas was helping a middle-aged woman prop up her broken leg when a shout rang out from down the valley: Cassandra’s voice. 

An eerie silence fell over the survivor’s camp as Cullen marched up the hill, carrying a young Elvish girl in his arms. She was deathly pale and some parts of her body were bent at awkward, unnatural angles, but her breath was frosting out between her lips and she was shivering, naturally curling into the warmth of Cullen’s shawl. 

Solas stood, his heart pounding louder in his chest than it had in ages. The blood rushed to his face and his fingers tingled with magic waiting to be unleashed. While what Cole said of him was interesting, he hadn't thought it was true, but at that moment he could almost _feel_ colors inside of him, a full range of emotions that swirled and spun like elegant, twirling dancers. They sung when he looked at her. 

For the rest of the night, he acted as her personal healer, and refused to leave her side until she opened her eyes. 

* * *

His eyes are crusted with sleep when he opens them. The night had not been pleasant. 

It's a startling realization that he has trouble sleeping in a peaceful environment. Solas awoke mid-morning with the birds of Val Royeaux chirping pleasantly and perching on the sill of his open window. He rolls over in his bed, half-expecting for a second to find someone snoring next to him, like Varric or Sera, but he’s alone. 

Val Royeaux is too drab a city for him to bother staying longer than finding a decent breakfast. After doing just that, Solas purchases a fresh mount and heads out from the city, just as many eyes following him as when he entered. 

The day has already just begun, and it is blistering hot. The sands outside the city shimmer as the sun beats down on them. He heads south to pass around Lake Celestine, because continuing east and crossing the Waking Sea, while a shorter amount of time, would be harder. He is not quite ready to return back to Skyhold. And there is nothing north of the sea that he wishes to visit. 

For a while in his ride, because there is nothing better to do, he considers going back to the Exalted Plains, to feel and appreciate the grass beneath his feet again. But he has a distinct feeling that Lavellan and her smaller-than-usual party were not yet gone. She had told them all that after helping rescue Solas’ friend, they would set up some extra camps in the Exalted Plains so that they could hold it better. 

 _Rescuing Solas’ friend._ What a laugh that was, looking back on it now. Just the thought of seeing it kneeling in the grass, tears strewn across it’s face, _knowing_ that it was unsalvageable…it makes Solas press his heels harder into his mount to get across the dunes faster. He’s getting tired of looking at nothing but sand.

It's a while before he sees anything except for sand. As it’s beginning to grow darker, with the sun finally soothing it’s scorching heat as it goes to hide behind the horizon, Solas spots the crystal blue waters of Lake Celestine. 

It’s hardly the ideal camping spot, but it’s been a long day of riding and it would be unwise to continue traveling when the night comes. He doesn’t have a tent, but he supposes his sleeping roll will have to suffice until he decides to go back to Skyhold. _If_ he goes back to Skyhold. 

Solas ties his horse down next to a small tree on the shore and goes to scout the nearby area, making sure it’s a safe place to stop for the night. On the way back, he finds and kills a Nug for his dinner, quickly charring it whole and heading back to his impromptu camp so he can skin it. The meat is overdone and weak, but it’s the only thing he’s had to eat since morning, so he’s grateful for it nonetheless. 

There’s nothing to do after he’s finished eating and laying out his sleeping roll. Solas’ mind is kicking with energy, anxious to move and to do something. His fingers twitch, and he considers practicing a few spells to waste some time and tire himself out, but decides against it. Despite the fact that he scouted the nearby perimeter of his camp, casting bright spells in the darkness would definitely attract anyone nearby. 

The waters from the lake are sloshing gently onto the light grasses of the area, crooning to him from where he lays. He stares at the lake for a while, then sits up with a resigned sigh and begins to strip. He hasn’t bathed since they had arrived in the Exalted Plains – nearly half a week – and even then it was more of a quick splash than a cleansing. Solas stands, his nude body exposed in the moonlight, and gingerly steps into the waters until he’s up to his waist. 

Well, the first thing he registers is that it’s cold. Goose pimples prickle up and down his arms, and he allows himself to spare a bit of magic to heat up the water around him. It won’t last long, so he scrubs himself clean and lets himself relax, wading in the water. Now that it’s been warmed, Solas finds himself calming, and his eyelids droop heavily, the only thing keeping him awake the gentle roll of the lake’s water around him. 

* * *

Steam hissed in the air of the tower, filling the room with an air of relaxation. Well, it should have been relaxing, Solas reflected, but Varric and Bull’s loud, raucous laughter stung his ears and made him squint in annoyance, even with his eyes closed. There was a curtain separating his tub from the rest of the wash stations in the room, but that didn’t stop Varric from noisily making jests about it. 

When the Inquisition arrived at Skyhold and completed their inspection of the grounds, one of the first things reported by various soldiers were the lack of bathing rooms, for both men and women. Once everyone was settled in, Josephine took the time to order several proper tubs and various sets of washing utensils from Val Royeaux. The men chose their location in one of the empty towers on the battlements, while the women – most likely more modest than the men – chose one of Skyhold’s lower levels. 

As much as Solas relished a tub full of steaming water, it was hard to enjoy himself and feel truly sated with others in the room. He would have preferred the company of Blackwall, or Cullen, or even _Dorian_ over either Varric or the Iron Bull. Yet he happened to choose his night to bathe on the same night as the two of them, walking into the room to see them already stripped bare and laughing. 

With a resigned sigh, he stood out of the tub and retrieved his clothes from a nearby chair. While he dried himself off with a cloth, he heard Varric’s voice call from behind him, “Leaving so soon, Chuckles? The night’s just begun.” His voice was filled with something like mock sorrow, something that Varric was very good at. 

But Solas ignored him, stepping into his pants and resting his shirt in the crook of his arm. As he was leaving the room, Bull spoke, “Yeah, _Chuckles_ , the fun hasn’t even started yet!” His rumbly voice struggled to get around Varric’s nickname, and after the door was closed and he was outside, Solas heard another wave of laughter, followed by Varric saying, “Ah, he’s always like that.” 

He was used to the thoughtless comments from Varric and those like him, because more often than not, it was out of sport and not malice. It was preferable. He had been demonized in Elven lore for centuries, his name invoked to tell children a cautionary tale at night, so all of the good-natured joking was much easier to bear. 

The night was cool on Solas’ skin. It was a relaxed evening, with all of the people of Skyhold dwindling in the moonlight as they finished their day's duties. A steady flow of people streamed into the tavern, music and shouting and joy on every floor, providing enough noise for the entire stronghold. His bare feet padded quietly along the battlements, passing through one of the larger watchtowers – he could almost hear Cullen moaning in his sleep up the ladder – and heading out the door onto the walkway. 

He entered the rotunda through the side door and was surprised to find a figure sitting on his couch. Lavellan seemed to be waiting for him, almost dozing, but as soon as she spotted him she nearly bolted upright. “Solas!” Her eyes travelled down to his bare chest - still wet - before snapping back up to his eyes. “I was just on my way back from the tavern and I figured I’d stop by…” 

She turned around for a moment to let him slip his shirt on, and he did so with a restrained chuckle. As much flirting as she did, one would think that she wouldn’t get embarrassed so easily, but that never seemed to be the case with her. When Solas made a subtle cough to tell her she could turn back around, she seemed relieved. “Hello,” he spoke, trying and failing to keep the subtle amusement out of his voice. He waited, patiently, for her to respond.

Her composure regained and her professionalism back in place, she crossed her hands behind her back and spoke. “I apologize if I intruded in your quarters, Solas. However…” Lavellan faltered, a glimpse of nervousness peaking through her calm expression. “I’m interested in what you told me of yourself and your studies. If you have time, I’d like to hear more.” 

His eyes widened, but he made sure it was only for a fraction of a moment. “You continue to surprise me. All right, let us talk…preferably somewhere more interesting than this.” 

* * *

As they walked through Haven, Solas relished Lavellan’s expression; her wide green eyes, mouth slightly agape in surprise as she took steps through the town that was only recently their stronghold. He figured that she didn’t know much about him beside the stories he’d told her, and he doubted that she’d ever know much more than those. For now, though, he could at least tell her a bit more harmless information. 

Lavellan was polite, interested, and fascinated by everything she saw around her, even if she wasn’t aware that they were in the Fade. He walked her around the dungeons, back through the Chantry and outside to the massive, sickly cloud of green in the sky: the Breach. His voice was careful, controlled, yet somehow keeping the emotion out of it – the utter confusion and panic of how he felt – was difficult. It slipped out in the very end, frighteningly: “…And right then, I felt the whole world change.” 

For a moment, a terrifying, endless moment, Solas froze, feeling like he’d overstepped his boundaries. This was past the realm of playful flirting and comrades in arms; this was serious, more emotional, a thing that he was never really too good at doing. He waited. 

But then the corner of her lip curled up, a flush spread across her cheeks. She was embarrassed – no, that was the wrong word. She was _flattered_. “Felt the whole world change…?” 

And he felt lighter, because by the look in her eyes she realized it, too, that his statement was deeper than anything they’d touched on before. His mood reflected in his voice. “A figure of speech.” 

“I’m aware of the metaphor,” she smiled, still a bit bashful, and moved closer. “I’m more interested in ‘felt’.” 

Then they’re both moving closer, the tension sparking between them in the air. It was almost painful, how he noticed every small detail about her in that moment, how much he wanted to say and how little he could. “You change…everything.” And that was the biggest risk, because that could be too far, but he felt like it was possible, it could happen. 

She looked down, embarrassed now, but her smile was still there, as if she couldn’t get it off of her face. “Sweet talker,” she murmured, and his heart felt like it was blossoming, but he didn’t dare move further. He could have stopped right there with that brief bliss. But, but – 

There was a soft, feminine hand on his face, tilting him to face her, and she kissed him. Short, yet gentle and hesitant, as if she were afraid _he_ would reject _her_ , as if he could do such a thing. There was no time to relish it before she pulled away, silenced by his lack of response. But it was getting old not being able to respond, to hold back so much. He pulled her back in and initiated the kiss, this time deeper, more passionate. She responded eagerly and he devoured every soft exhale of air, every slip of his tongue across her lips. 

He would have let the moment last forever, and something told him she would have to. But he pulled away, glimpsing at the Breach behind her, and everything came back. This was unwise. It would do her no good as Inquisitor to get involved with someone like him. 

* * *

In the morning, she approached him with a spring in her step. He had been travelling the Fade the whole night, somewhat expecting to find her, yet not disappointed when he didn’t. Lavellan’s face in the morning light was enough to fully wake him, and seeing her standing there, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and kiss her again. 

But their conversation was simply polite, if not a bit lighter and more flirtatious. He apologized, yet she wanted nothing of it; in fact, Lavellan was interested in pursuing a relationship with him. The thought, admittedly, unnerved him more than it should have: she likely didn’t have a single idea what she was asking for. He agreed to give it some thought and they left it at that, and she went upstairs to talk to the rest of her companions. 

* * *

With a resigned sigh, Solas replays that kiss and conversation over and over in his head as he dismounts his horse. It whickers softly, asking for food or water, neither of which Solas has any more of. He has made it to the Storm Coast after a solid week of travel from Val Royeaux. He silently hopes that Lavellan won’t be here; she’s a very busy Inquisitor, so his chances are good. 

When he arrives it’s the dead of night, and even the dragon that prowls the coasts is asleep, his breath rumbling in his throat like a thunderstorm. Solas passes by several Inquisition camps, and decides to leave his exhausted horse at one of them. Hopefully they will take care of it in the morning, seeing as the Inquisition could always use another mount. 

He’s just going to find a place to camp for the night in solitude when he sees a figure walking the beach. The figure is tall, unmistakably male. And it’s walking straight towards him. Solas has two options: fight or flight. Neither of them are preferable, but while he’s trying to make his decision, the figure has gotten close enough for Solas to see his face. With an almost malicious smile, the figure twirls the end of his mustache. 

“Well, well,” Dorian hums, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He crosses his arms and takes another lazy step forward. “Our favorite Elven apostate. Did you wander a bit too far and find yourself on the Storm Coast?” 

“Dorian,” Solas sighs, and his energy is suddenly drained. The Tevinter mage is the last person he wants to deal with right now. But a thought strikes him, so alarming that he finds himself fully awake: if Dorian is here, then Lavellan must be, as well. He manages to stutter it out. “Is…is she – ?” 

That makes him roll his eyes, far too dramatically. “No, no, no need to worry your pretty little head about that. I’ve been sent with some of the Commander’s troops to help collect some ore. Our dear Inquisitor is most likely back at Skyhold, still moping about in her bedchambers.” 

Solas frowns and furrows his brow. Concern begins to pool low in his stomach at the thought of the usually cheerful Inquisitor locking herself in her room. “Moping about…?” Cautiously, he takes a step forward. “Is she alright?” 

A glint appears in Dorian’s eye, and he appears to stifle a laugh at how easily he captured Solas’ attention. “She appears to be upset. Ever since she returned from the Exalted Plains she has hardly left her room, and when she does, it is only to take a stroll around Skyhold.” When Solas takes a look at Dorian, his gaze has shifted to accusatory. 

“Why would she be so distraught?” He crosses his arms as well, deep in thought. “She has done nothing to be ashamed of…” 

“She _feels_ as though she has.” With a heavy sigh, Dorian reaches down into the sand and digs up a small, flat rock. He flicks his wrist and whirls it into the waters, frowning when it only skips twice. “Apparently that little expedition you all went on didn’t go so well. She feels responsible for your…disappearance.” 

“I did not disappear,” he snaps, trying to banish the hot shame that has cast itself onto his face. “I specifically told the Inquisitor I wished to be alone. She did not try to stop me.” Yet the realization that she is excluding herself from the rest of the world because of something _he_ asked her to do makes his gut twist in horror and guilt. He realizes again that he should never have kissed her, should never have allowed himself to get close to her. 

“Yes, well.” Dorian turns back to Solas and glances at the Inquisition camp that looms on the hill behind them. “Regardless of _your_ circumstances, she has refused to leave Skyhold until you have returned. So.” He moves closer, suddenly, and Solas is surprised by the seriousness that shines in Dorian’s eyes, and that comes along with another realization: _he cares for her, as well. Like he is her brother._ “If you are done with this self-depreciatory journey across all of Thedas, I hope to see you back at Skyhold. It would certainly be unfortunate if you didn’t return.” 

There’s something almost threatening in Dorian’s look, and Solas finds himself not afraid, yet impressed. His words carry a sincerity that he didn’t expect Dorian to be capable of, and for a split second he is grateful that Lavellan has people like Dorian to watch out for her, even when Solas is constantly failing her. 

He has no wish to argue with a man who seems genuine in his intentions. “Of course.” Solas nods at him, and begins to move past him. “Good evening, Dorian.” He leaves him there on the beach and walks down the rocks, waiting until he sees Dorian head back up the hill to settle into a nook under one of the natural stone archways. It’s cold and cramped, yet it remains one of the few places in the Storm Coast that is sheltered from the constant rain. 

Sleep evades him. Solas manages to steal a bit of rest here and there, but it’s hard to truly fall asleep when the rain is continually pouring and the wild wolves are howling off in the distance. Dorian’s words echo around in his head, bringing him even _more_ shame. At this point, perhaps he is just moping, avoiding going back to Skyhold and facing her. 

She was willing to try a relationship, she had told him. The thought excites him as much as it frightens him. Solas knows how dangerous it is, and yet…the more he imagines it, the more he wants it. He pictures holding her lithe form against his and feeling the rise and fall of her chest, kissing her on a balcony overlooking all of Skyhold, watching her fall asleep as he wraps his arms around her and tells her of his journeys in the Fade… 

Now that he thinks about it, the utter domesticity of the idea is somewhat alarming, yet more desirable than anything he’s felt in a while. When dawn first breaks over the chaotic waves of the Storm Coast, Solas packs up and begins to travel back to Skyhold. He decides that he’ll speak to her as soon as he walks through the gates. 

* * *

The grass at Skyhold has grown a bit taller since he was last here. As Solas walks through the gates, bare feet padding on the stone, the guards hush, not used to seeing him alone, and they whisper to each other quietly: _he has returned?_ and _the Inquisitor has not left Skyhold in weeks because of him_ and _it’s about time._ With all the commentary the guards are providing, Solas wonders if Lavellan will be angry with him for staying away for so long. He doesn’t have time to think on it much, however, because as he walks through the gates into Skyhold’s courtyard, she is heading down the stairs and looking straight at him. 

Lavellan looks fine, thankfully. A little tired, but she seems healthy in all aspects other than that. She does not offer him a smile, however – instead a weary gaze – which makes his heart feel a bit heavier. Here comes the conversation he’s been dreading. He greets her politely. “Inquisitor.” 

It may be his imagination, but there seems to be a weight lifted off her shoulders, making her carry herself like she normally does: confident, full of purpose. While she has certainly looked better, she focuses on him, and asks how he is feeling. He is honest. It would be foolish not to be after all the trouble she’s gone through for him. 

“Thank you for coming back.” It’s a near sigh as she says it, yet her voice is sincere. Lavellan asks him questions of his journey. She attempts to make him feel better, yet it is not her words that warms his heart but the concern behind them. 

“The next time you have to mourn,” she tells him, a glimmer of kindness in her eyes, “you don’t need to be alone.” Before they part ways, she smiles, so warm and natural that he truly does begin to feel better. But then – 

No, no. She gave him that smile when he made the request to save his friend in the Exalted Plains. The smile he adores so much. He walks past her and up the stairs before she can see his downtrodden expression. She is not angry at him, which feels important. Yet that fact alongside his return to Skyhold does not mean that his friend is any less gone. He sits in the rotunda and forces himself to drink an entire cup of tea before he relaxes. 

Later that evening, after dinner, Lavellan comes to him in small, hesitant steps. His mind has been reeling all day, so he invites her to speak somewhere privately. Without a word, she takes him by the hand and leads him through the Great Hall, ignoring the whispers of the nobles in the room. They head up to her quarters and onto her balcony. 

This time it is him asking her the questions. She answers them all and at the end inquires what their conversation means. “It means,” he tells her, putting on a light appearance yet listening to his heart hammer in his ears, “I have not forgotten the kiss.” 

A small piece in the back of Solas’ mind – the piece based on logic – hopes that she will tell him she doesn’t care. But that small piece is crushed when she smiles, sweet and confident, and moves closer to him. There’s a playful swirl in her hips as she moves, slowly, and he hears her speak: “Good.” Her voice is quiet, her word almost carried away by the breeze. Her hands rest behind her back, and he’s drawn closer as well, and then it’s a standoff; who will make the first move, they’re most likely thinking. Her eyes are light and warm, challenging him to kiss her, as if she is saying to him _I kissed you first last time. Now it is your turn._ She’s distracting, and the only thing he wants is to selfishly indulge the both of them and close the gap, and yet… 

Solas moves away, because that small piece, however small, is right; this entire idea is wrong, foolish, irresponsible. The only thing he would really do in the end is hurt her. She didn’t deserve that. But then there’s a hand on his arm, pulling him back, and her voice is soft, asking him to stay. Oh, that voice of hers is going to be the death of him. 

Words tumble out of his mouth before his mind has a chance to think them over, and whatever long and moving soliloquy he might have said is cut short by his own actions as he turns around and kisses her, finally. It feels like a flood breaking loose from behind a dam, and Solas is almost sure Lavellan feels it, as well; unbridled desire as he holds her close, her hands gripping his shirt as if her life depends on it. 

After what feels like an eternity, he moves away. Solas lets himself take in and appreciate her flushed cheeks, the famous Inquisitor’s composure crumbled away, her hair slightly loosened from it’s bun. Seeing her standing there, stunned into silence, puts a warm feeling in Solas’ chest, and he leaves her there, knowing the moment was perfect. Not all of the pain is gone, of course, but in time, she may be able to help him fix that.  

**Author's Note:**

> i edited this fic while listening to Ghost by Mystery Skulls, hence the boring and uncreative title
> 
> by the way, my lavellan is a rogue and her name is Semra :)
> 
> (by the FUCKING by several tropes i adore: a weird triangle-ish dynamic between cullen, lavellan, and solas (totally in my head lmao), lavellan flirting w/ literally everybody, BIG BROTHER DORIAN)
> 
> thank you for reading!!! kudos are appreciated and comments even more so


End file.
